privilege.
to refuse to see
or to stare idly, half-lidded
as the waters lurch forward—
not here though.

the sea laps insatiably at foreign doorsteps,
but our streets glimmer in pure opulence.
we sip from greed-rimmed glasses,
while frail hands elsewhere wring out floodwater
from the fabric holding their very lives.

we do not fret—
for we are shielded by distance,
by steel and glass called arrogance.

privilege is to have
the indulgence of waste,
to glut then discard,
to lay waste to a world
already gasping for breath.
to cradle abundance in silver-plated hands,
while others claw at the earth for scraps.

we sit back,
stretch our limbs
beneath tainted "broad stripes and bright stars"
on chairs built on the backs of those bent double.

privilege is to believe
our decadence is divine,
our hunger is dignified,
our smoke is ours to exhale,
though it snakes its way across the sea.

but the tide does not tremble before borders—
it saunters in, uninvited.
floods rise without a passport,
pollution spills forward, indifferent.

the land beneath them sighs
exhausted from the weight of debts
it never incurred.

privilege is to take,
to pluck, to seize, to gorge,
and feign innocence.

to have the luxury
of turning a blind eye—
that is,
our nation.